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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400349">Fire 'round the Sun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarjoRuusu/pseuds/VarjoRuusu'>VarjoRuusu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fire 'round the Sun [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Description of wounds, Fluff, Gratuitous overuse of Dynamite by one Butch Cassidy, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Angst, Not Injury Squick Safe, Pre-Relationship, They blew themselves up a little bit and now they have to patch each other up, Whump, some blood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:00:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarjoRuusu/pseuds/VarjoRuusu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During a robbery (not the robbery depicted in the film) Butch gets a little too enthusiastic with the dynamite and they both get a bit banged up, and have to deal with the aftermath. Of course, things don't go as smoothly as they could.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Longabaugh | Sundance Kid/Robert Parker | Butch Cassidy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fire 'round the Sun [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fire 'round the Sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Wow this ended up so much fluffy angst. And one massive cliche. Eh, WHO CARES. It fluffy and warm and happy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Jesus Christ, Butch,” Sundance grumbled, trying to reach around to the back of his arm where a deep cut still bled sluggishly, and may still have a chunk of timber lodged in it. “Do you think you used enough dynamite?”</p><p>“Let me see,” Butch said, trying to get around Sundance to see his arm through his torn open shirt.</p><p>“It'll keep,” Sundance shook his head, placing the hand of his uninjured arm on Butch's chest and pushing him back toward the rickety cot until his knees hit the edge and he had no choice but to sit down. “Let me look at that.”</p><p>Butch sighed, gingerly tugging his hat off. He hissed as it came away from his skin, practically glued there by dried blood from a gash across his forehead.</p><p>“I ain't seein' double, if that's what you're worried about,” he muttered, leaning back against the wall as Sundance pulled the lamp closer to examine the cut. “I'm more worried about that arm.”</p><p>“Open your eyes,” Sundance said, ignoring him completely. He held the light close and moved it back and forth a few times, watching Butch's pupils. He'd learned this when he was a boy, when a friend of his fell off a tall rock and knocked his head hard. His eyes had been glazed and stuck, and he'd died the next morning. Sundance never forgot it. Butch's eyes seemed fine though, the pupils expanding and contracting and his eyes following the lamp automatically.</p><p>“It's just a scratch,” Butch said quietly. “You know head cuts bleed like a son of a bitch. Now let me see that arm, or you might never use it to shoot again.”</p><p>Sundance glanced down at his left hand, cradled in his torn and filthy shirt between two of the buttons and he sighed, nodding. Setting the lamp down on the small table where it would be of most use, he pulled a stool over and sat with his left side to Butch, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey right about now.</p><p>“Here,” Butch said, as if reading his mind, a bottle in his hand as he held it out, saddlebags open at his feet.</p><p>Sundance took it without a word, pulling the cork with his teeth and taking a heavy swig as Butch cut the rest of his shirt away to expose the wound on his arm.</p><p>“Give me that,” Butch said, holding his hand out. “And bite down on something.”</p><p>Sundance hissed as Butch poked around the edges of the wound and he handed over the bottle, fumbling one handed with his belt buckle and pulling it free, folding the leather between his teeth and biting down hard. Butch didn't ask if he was ready, or warn him, he just turned the bottle over and poured the whiskey over the wound. Sundance screamed and nearly blacked out.</p><p>By the time he caught his breath, Butch had moved away again and was threading a needle in the dim light.</p><p>“It looks clean enough,” Butch said when he noticed Sundance's attention had returned. “No wood chips in it I can see, it's a clean slice, should heal up fine.”</p><p>Sundance grunted, reaching across for the bottle and taking another deep drink. Not too much, he knew he was going to need a steady hand later to stitch up the cut on Butch's forehead, but this was going to be one of the more unpleasant experiences of his life.</p><p>“Tell me a story,” Butch said as he set to work and Sundance bit his lip.</p><p>“Now ain't exactly the time for storytelling,” he grunted after a minute.</p><p>“It'll distract you,” Butch said and Sundance sighed, casting back to his childhood for anything interesting.</p><p>“When I was seven I took a tumble off a horse and my ma tanned my hide til I couldn't sit right,” Sundance said. “She fixed it so I couldn't ride for near a month and I hated her for it.”</p><p>He took another deep swig of whiskey and sighed.</p><p>“I love horses,” he confessed. “If I hadn't turned to robbin' trains I might like to have a horse ranch. Not cattle, too placid. Horses have fire, they're a challenge.”</p><p>Butch snorted and Sundance glared at him.</p><p>“You wanted a story,” he snapped, pulling the bottle back to his lips, trying as hard as he could to ignore the stabbing pains in his arm as Butch stitched.</p><p>“Sundance, you just described yourself,” Butch said with a quiet laugh. “Full of fire and a challenge every day.”</p><p>Sundance fell silent, staring at a point on the floor. Was that really how Butch saw him? Full of fire? Sundance had always been quiet, never really engaging unless he had to. He was a good shot, fast, he aways had been since the first time he picked up a gun, he was a good hand with horses, and dogs, but he hated people. He never thought of himself as someone with 'fire'.</p><p>Butch finished tying off the stitches while Sundance was lost in thought and stood up to get the water pitcher from across the room so he could clean at least some of the blood off before he bandaged the less than neat, but serviceable, work. Sundance's shirt was more than done for, the arm cut open all the way from cuff to collar so the shirt gaped open and hung off one shoulder, revealing patchworks of angry bruises that were just beginning to bloom across his chest. Butch sighed, wishing they could go to a real doctor, but they had to keep low for a while after the last job. They've just barely gotten away by the skin of their teeth, injured and bleeding and three of their crew dead, shot by the two marshals that happened to be on the train they were robbing. All in all, it had been a bad day for everyone.</p><p>“Ow!” Sundance shouted as Butch cleaned the wound, wiping the blood away from the stitches and cleaning his arm as much as possible.</p><p>He took the bottle back and poured whiskey on a cloth, pressing it to the red line for a long moment before he wrapped the arm up with a clean bandage, tight enough to keep pressure and stem the bleeding. He thanked God for Etta and her tendency to keep their saddlebags stocked with emergency supplies, and he caught Sundance when he swayed heavily from the pain and blood loss.</p><p>“I got you,” Butch said quietly, his arms wrapped around Sundance and holding him steady.</p><p>Sundance turned his head just an inch and buried his face against Butch's collarbone, breathing deeply. Butch smelled like smoke and gunpowder and sweat and blood, but it was familiar, and it steadied the spinning in Sundance's head.</p><p>“You're gonna get me killed one of these days,” he muttered against Butch's skin, not angrily, just resigned.</p><p>Butch's heart clenched and he sighed, pressing his nose to Sundance's filthy hair. “I swear it won't be on purpose,” he said, not bothering to disagree. One of these days he was going to get them both killed and they both knew it.</p><p>“Ok,” Sundance sighed after a minute, forcing himself to sit up and pull away from Butch's warmth. “Clean that needle and thread it, I want to sew up that cut.”</p><p>Butch scowled, but obeyed, though not before he'd finished relieving Sundance of his shirt and working the remaining bits of cloth into a sling to keep his left arm immobile. He didn't know how Sundance was going to stitch up his head with one hand, but he trusted him to manage. It stung, and he had to hold Sundance steady while he worked, but soon enough the cut was closed and cleaned and Butch was swearing as Sundance wiped his forehead clean with a rag soaked in whiskey.</p><p>“Give me that,” he groused, taking the bottle from where Sundance held it between his knees and took a long drink. Between the two of them and their injuries, the bottle was already almost empty.</p><p>“We have to get out of here first thing,” Sundance muttered, clumsily wiping the needle down and stowing it back in the small pack it came from in the saddlebag. He rummaged for a minute, hoping to come up with a clean shirt, but he was out of luck and he sighed as he sat up again.</p><p>“You can't ride like that,” Butch pointed out, moving to shed his jacket with a groan, the movement aggravating the bruises between his shoulder blades where he'd landed when the blast from the dynamite had thrown him and Sundance to the ground. Next time he was using less, unless they put in a bigger safe. Then he'd just stand further away.</p><p>“We've only got one horse,” Sundance reminded him. “I'll steer, you keep me from falling off.”</p><p>“And where are we going?” Butch asked, rolling his eyes and tugging at Sundance's boot when it appeared in his lap. He pulled the other boot off, then struggled with his own before he leaned back against the wall, every muscle aching. All he wanted to do was sleep.</p><p>“That's your job, Butch, you're the thinker,” Sundance said, standing gingerly and groaning as various parts of his spine clicked back into place.</p><p>“Maybe I'm tired of thinkin',” Butch muttered, his eyelids drooping.</p><p>“Hey,” Sundance said, nudging Butch's feet with his own. “At least get under the damned blanket will you, I'm not sleeping sitting up.”</p><p>It was late, probably after 1am, and Butch was tired, bruised, bloody, and they'd ridden six hours at least, both of them injured and bleeding. Thinking could wait, he decided as he managed to lever himself off the bed and pull the blanket back. He collapsed onto the narrow mattress, pressing his back against the wall and waiting for Sundance to lay down, his back to Butch's chest, before he pulled threadbare blanket over them, carefully tucking his arm around Sundance's middle and pulling him closer. They shifted until they were pressed tightly together, Butch's arm half holding Sundance and half supporting his injured arm and Butch buried his face in Sundance's hair once more.</p><p>“Butch,” Sundance mumbled.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Quit thinking.”</p><p>Butch chuckled and Sundance reached for Butch's left hand with his right and laced their fingers together.</p><p>They slept fitfully for a few hours, rising with the dawn and stumbling out of the small abandoned cabin they had been lucky enough to find the night before. It was cold, despite it being late in the spring, and Butch grabbed the blanket from the bed as they left, draping it over Sundance's shoulders and thin jacket after the laborious task of getting him on the horse with only one working arm. Once that had been accomplished he settled in behind Sundance, one arm around his waist, and turned them east, back toward Etta's place. She wasn't there, she was back East in Boston or some such for something to do with teaching, but Butch knew they could hide out at her house for a good couple of weeks before they'd need to move on.</p><p>Sundance slumped against Butch almost immediately, allowing the other man to take his weight as he drifted off, his stomach hollow, his head spinning, and his arm burning. He had dozed off again in a matter of minutes, for which Butch was grateful, since the more rest Sundance got the better his chances were.</p><p>Sometime around noon they were passing close enough to a town that Butch pulled them up and helped Sundance down, settling him against a rock and covering him with the blanket. He took the horse and rode into town, sweet talking the young lady at the general store and coming away with a sack full of food and fresh clothes, at half the normal price.</p><p>“Hey,” Sundance mumbled when Butch returned. “What'd you steal?”</p><p>“Not a thing, except the money that paid for this,” Butch grinned, passing Sundance a bread roll and a canteen of fresh water.</p><p>“Thanks,” Sundance chuckled, drinking and eating slowly while Butch sat beside him, crunching on an apple and some tinned beans. Sundance didn't mind that Butch didn't offer him any, his stomach didn't feel up to more than the bread roll anyway, and his arm was throbbing something fierce.</p><p>“We should get back to Etta's by dark,” Butch said, making conversation out of nothing, just to fill the silence. “She's still in Boston ain't she?”</p><p>“What month is it?” Sundance asked, his vision hazy as he tried to follow Butch's words.</p><p>“April, I think,” Butch said and Sundance nodded.</p><p>Butch gave them a few more minutes, then he hauled Sundance up and manhandled him back onto the horse, doing his best to be careful. He didn't like how Sundance was looking. The man was tired, they both were, but Sundance's face was getting flushed and the sun wasn't hot enough to cause that, even way out west here. It was pleasantly warm, but he looked like it was the middle of summer in Arizona, and when Butch settled on the horse behind him and felt Sundance's heat against his chest where he slumped, he knew something wasn't right.</p><p>Sundance slept, for the most part, and they reached Etta's small house just after dark. Getting Sundance off the horse was no real chore, he just slid sideways and Butch barely managed to catch him, half dragging him into the house and onto the bed. He took care of the horse quickly, then spread the contents of the saddlebags and the sack from the town on the kitchen table, and drew water up to boil as soon as the fire got hot enough. He hoped none of Etta's somewhat distant neighbours were nosey and came to see why there was smoke when the owner was away for another month.</p><p>“Come on, you,” he said to Sundance gently as he got him up, tossing the rugged blanket and his ruined jacket in a corner to be discarded. He cut away the shirt sling and unwrapped the bandages, hissing when he saw the redness spreading from the stitched up wound.</p><p>“You've killed me, haven't you?” Sundance mumbled against his shoulder, unable to even sit up now without Butch's support.</p><p>“If you die it'll be because you gave up,” Butch snapped, fear shaking his voice. He didn't know what to do, he wasn't a doctor, he'd never particularly even spoken to a doctor. He'd been lucky his whole life, he'd never had to deal with an injury this serious, to himself or anyone else.</p><p>“It's ok,” Sundance sighed and Butch growled.</p><p>“Sundance, shut the hell up,” he said harshly, levering Sundance up off the bed and into the kitchen, sitting him on a chair in front of the fire. He tossed his jacket away and rolled up his sleeves, testing the water every few minutes until it was warm enough that he could wash the wound before he carefully washed the dried blood off of Sundance's chest and back, trying to get him as clean as possible.</p><p>By the time he got Sundance clean, out of the last of his filthy clothing, and tucked under the heavy winter quilts, he was exhausted, but he knew he wouldn't sleep any time soon. Sundance was warm, too warm, and he'd started mumbling incoherently about halfway through the pseudo bath.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Butch put the coffee kettle on and stripped out of his own clothes, cleaning up with the remaining hot water and donning new pants and a shirt before he checked on Sundance again. He hissed when he cleaned out his own cut, glancing in the small mirror and seeing with relief that it wasn't particularly red around the stitches, and the scab was a good clear red colour, no sign of infection. Feeling halfway human again, he went digging through Etta's cupboards.</p><p>Butch had never been more thankful that he learned to read than when he found the jar marked <em>'Ointment for Cuts and Burns' </em>next to the tinctures and Etta's strange tea that she rarely drank because it cost her a whole month's worth of her pay for one tiny tin. He dabbed some of the ointment on his cut before he took the tin into the bedroom and applied it liberally to Sundance's arm, following it with a fresh bandage from the stock in the cupboard.</p><p>He drank coffee and tried to coax some water down Sundance every half hour until dawn, at which point Butch couldn't take it anymore and passed out, his head pillowed on the mattress near Sundance's hip. He was woken a few hours later by Sundance thrashing around, trying to shove the covers off, and he shook the sleep from his bones as he stood stiffly, trying to calm his friend.</p><p>“Hey,” he said softly. “Come on, you need to stay under there, kid, you need this fever to break.”</p><p>Sundance didn't answer, and that terrified Butch. Sure he was quiet, but never when it came to a witty comeback and that was practically begging for it. He settled eventually, but it wasn't long before he was restless again and Butch was skimming Etta's small bookshelf for anything that might help. He found nothing, so he took a breath and decided to go on instinct. He changed the bandage again, cleaning the wound and reapplying the ointment, before he stripped off his clothes and crawled under the covers with Sundance, drawing him close and pressing their skin together everywhere he could.</p><p>He was sweating in minutes, far too hot under all the covers and pressed up against Sundance's feverish skin, but he needed to drive the fever up until it broke, so he stayed, holding Sundance close and still when he started to move restlessly. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sundance settled, and Butch left the bed briefly to stoke the fire and force some food down, knowing he'd be no good if he passed out from hunger. The food tasted stale, and the second pot of coffee had gone cold, but he drank a cup anyway before he returned to the bedroom, once more trying to get some water down Sundance before he crawled beneath the covers once more.</p><p>The afternoon passed with little improvement and Butch started to fear the worst. If the fever didn't break soon, Sundance wasn't going to survive.</p><p>“I'll make you a deal,” Butch whispered, combing his finger's through Sundance's hair, cleaner than it had been before he'd washed Sundance up, but still matted with sweat and grim. “You get better, and we'll go straight. I'll buy you a horse ranch and we can breed prize racehorses and win our money, instead of stealing it. How's that sound?”</p><p>Sundance didn't answer, didn't seem to even know Butch was talking, but it didn't matter. Talking had always soothed Butch, so he talked, and talked, until he drifted off, holding Sundance close and praying to a God he wasn't sure existed.</p><p>Hours later, he wasn't sure how many, Butch woke with a start when he felt Sundance trying to pull away. Butch shifted, looking down to find Sundance looking at him, his face groggy and confused.</p><p>“Hey,” Sundance groaned, blue eyes clear but exhausted.</p><p>“Hey,” Butch grinned, lifting his head to look Sundance over. His colour had returned almost to normal, no longer the sickly pale he'd grown in the last few hours. He held a hand up under Sundance's hair and sighed in relief when he felt cool skin. “You had me worried there for a minute,” he admitted and Sundance automatically shifted closer.</p><p>“Are we naked?” Sundance asked groggily, feeling around Butch's chest as if he was going to suddenly find a shirt. Butch chuckled.</p><p>“Yeah, Sundance, we're naked,” he sighed and Sundance's arm tightened around his waist, holding him tightly.</p><p>“About damned time,” he muttered and Butch just pealed with laughter. Things were looking up, and he was already thinking about how he was going to buy that horse ranch.</p><p>“Go to sleep, Sundance,” he said, tightening his arms and pressing a kiss to Sundance's hair. “I'll tell you all about my new plan in the morning.”</p><p>“Can't wait,” Sundance sighed, already dropping off to sleep, tucked safely in Butch's arms.</p><p>“Thank you,” Butch whispered at the ceiling before he closed his eyes and slept.</p>
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